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When we reach the car, he puts me in the driver’s seat and then walks around to the other side. He drops down so I don’t see him for a few moments. I have no idea what he’s doing. Looking underneath for someone? Tension grips me.

Then he reappears next to the passenger door, which he opens. There’s a gun in his right hand when he gets in.

“Trick—?”

“No, just habit. Everything’s fine.”

We don’t speak much on the drive, and at the house, he walks me all the way to the door.

Having him come inside would likely be awkward if Monet and my dad come to the kitchen, but I can’t leave him standing on the step, especially not after what happened in Slattery’s.

“Do you want to come in? While you’re waiting for your ride?”

“No, I’m good.”

I’m both relieved and disappointed. Unlocking the door, I push it open. “So I guess, good night then?”

He nods. “Good night, Laurelyn.”

Chapter 7

Laurel

He texts the next day, and the days after. Back in Boston, I’m constantly tempted to drive to Coynston to see him, but force myself to stay put. He’s a dangerous and complicated person, and my family and I are better off and safer if I stay in Boston.

Unfortunately, I find myself waiting for his messages like they’re the season finale of a favorite show. When he doesn’t text until eleven one night, I’m frustrated.

Trick:How’s it going?

The text is so generic and unlike him, I half wonder if the FBI is impersonating him.

Laurel:Fine. What kept you busy today?

Trick:My crue. How was your day? Any news you want to tell me?

I chew on my lower lip. I’m supposed to take a pregnancy test and let him know the results, but so far I haven’t.

Laurel:No. For that, I’d call.

Trick: [thumbs-up emoji]

When he doesn’t send additional texts after the thumbs up, annoyance returns.

That texting with him has become the highlight of my day is a problem. I wish I wasn’t hanging on, waiting for him to reach out and disappointed when the interaction with him is limited, especially since I know that his attention could dry up any time. I find myself wondering what he’s doing in Coynston and who he’s doing it with. Are other women draped over the upstairs couch at Slattery’s? I don’t want to become that jealous girl again, the one in high school who was so preoccupied with keeping the attention of a beautiful but emotionally unavailable guy.

The morning after the brief, late evening text exchange, he sends me a shot of the Creamsicle-colored sunrise, and it’s impossible not to enjoy it.

Rolling my eyes at myself, I respond.

Laurel:beautiful

Trick:yeah, but not the first thing i wanted to see when i woke up. Send a selfie.

I rail against the fluttery feeling that gives me. My fingers hover over the keys, wondering what I’m doing to myself by continuing to communicate with him.

Laurel:i don’t take them

Trick:shame